by Hugh Mills
By that time, Willis had made it down to Bill's bed. I had never seen him look so solemn. Rod reached down and gently patted the bed sheet. I knew he felt the same way Davis and I did—that we would probably never see Bill Jones again.
Flying back to Phu Loi, not a word was said. All three of us were deep in our own thoughts. We all realized that what had happened to Bill Jones could have happened to us. It could happen to any one of us, any day of the week. Every day, Charlie had his chance to send any one of us back in a body bag.
In a moment of honesty, I think every scout would have admitted that fear was with us constantly. Our ability to fly, in my opinion, came from our ability to recognize that we were afraid, to understand why we were afraid, and to continue to work through the fear.
Scout pilots understood their own mortality. The figures were there: If you were a pilot in the air cav and you were killed, you were probably a scout pilot. That's the way it was. Sometimes it was a slick pilot. Very rarely a Cobra pilot. Usually a scout pilot.
The key was that we never thought about the odds. We dealt with the prospect of getting shot, getting burned, dying, by never allowing ourselves to think about the consequences. Instead, we rationalized, we immersed ourselves in our own illusions of immortality. Like Bob Davis, who used his sense of humor to wrestle with his own demons. Like Bill Jones, who drank more than he should have.
I had come to the conclusion that when it was time for me to chuck it in, there wouldn't be a damned thing I could do about it. So I took the pragmatic view that I wasn't going to worry about something I couldn't control or influence. I never did totally crazy things, however; I never abandoned reason. But I felt that if I dwelled on the potential of getting hurt or killed, I would start getting too cautious. And when people get too cautious, they make mistakes—mistakes that get themselves and other people hurt. But if I ever wavered from my pragmatism, it was in those moments after seeing Bill Jones that day at the hospital.
We had lost Jim Ameigh. We had lost Chuck Davison. We had lost Pony One Six. We had lost two gallant crew chiefs. And I couldn't even recognize Bill Jones—my toad-swallowing bar buddy, my scout teacher, my good friend.
But tomorrow was another day, and I was VR-1.
CHAPTER 15
BUT ROD WAS ROD
The rest of September passed in a blur. It was one of the hottest months we had in terms of flying hours and sustained enemy activity. The scout platoon was shorthanded because of the casualties we had taken. The rest of us flew more hours to make up the difference. I logged more than 138 combat flying hours in September, and the other scouts did much the same. It was a hectic and tiring pace.
October started out the same way. I ended up taking a few days off, however, during the first part of the month, but not because I planned it that way.
On 2 October, Rod Willis and I were working the early morning VRs out of Dau Tieng. We flew two hunter-killer teams up to Delta Tango, then took turns reconning the area around the western Trapezoid.
Willis (One Seven) was up first and started his VR along the east bank of the Saigon River heading south out of Dau Tieng. I stayed on the pad monitoring his radio transmissions and waiting for my turn to relieve him on station.
It wasn't long before I heard that Willis had picked up some fish traps in a little tributary (Suoi Don) that headed off north and east of the Big Blue about three kilometers above our FSB Kien. Spotting the fish traps, Rod pulled in over the riverbank adjacent to them to see if there were footprints around. There were prints of sandals around the bank, and a trail showing recent moderate traffic. Dropping down to a couple of feet above the trail, One Seven determined that the latest foot tracks led away from the river and off through the jungle.
Willis followed the foot trail for four to five klicks into the jungle, where he discovered that it ended in the middle of an NVA base camp. He could see the outlines of the bunkers, the freshly washed clothes hanging on lines, the equipment and weapons leaning against trees. If those clues didn't tell One Seven that the base camp was occupied, the bursts of enemy ground fire that suddenly erupted were conclusive.
The instant I heard Willis yell to his gun that he was taking fire, I cranked, took off out of Dau Tieng with my gun (Mike Woods—Three Five), and headed to the point of contact. It was less than ten kilometers down to where Willis was. I stayed down on top of the trees to get there fast.
About halfway to the point of contact, I called One Seven on Uniform to ask him what he had run into.
Willis answered, “I followed a foot trail up from the Big Blue and found myself in the middle of a hot NVA base camp. Several of the little sons a bitches tried to didi out the back door, and we got a couple of them with the door gun. Now they're holed up in their bunkers and I've got Taxi on the way to blast ‘em out.” Taxi was an armored group out of FSB Kien. “They're about three hundred yards out now. In the meantime, I'm taking a heavy load of ground fire.”
“Have you got anybody out in the open now, One Seven?” I asked.
“That's a negative. They're all in the bunkers. I'm trying to blast ‘em out, but my minigun just jammed and I can't shoot. I've got to break station for Delta Tango and get my minigun cleared.”
A few seconds later I was on the scene, fell in on One Seven, and hit the radio again. “OK, One Seven, One Six is on your tail. What you got?”
“They're getting a little skittish down there,” Rod said. “They can hear the armor coming and know they're going to get their asses blown off, so they're trying to knock the scout down to cut off our observation and keep us from guiding the armor guys in.”
“That's a roger,” I came back. “I'll try to keep their heads down while you go back to Delta Tango and get your minigun unjammed.”
Rod peeled off and I went into the bunker area in a slow hover to see if I could catch anybody in the open. Nothing doing. Not a soul showed his face as I made several slow passes with the mini and door guns blazing. Apparently Charlie felt safer at the moment in the bunker.
“Screw this, Jimbo,” I finally said to my crew chief. “Heat me up a CS. We'll try and pop a gas down their chimney.”
Parker pulled the pin on a gas grenade and held it out the door as I skidded to a low-level quick stop over one of the bunkers. Just as I slid over the bunker entryway, Parker released the gas canister. “Well, I'll be damned—bull's-eye!” I hollered. Parker had pitched the gas canister squarely down into the bunker entrance.
Knowing that this would really piss off the bad guys, I immediately swung wide. I wanted to come around again for a minigun pass to dispatch anybody who stuck his head out for a breath of fresh air.
As I came back into the bunker area for the gun run, I miscalculated the wind direction and flew through some of the CS gas grenade residue. Parker and I both got our eyes full. Catching a snoot full of our own gas happened once in awhile, so I knew what to do. I kicked left pedal and swung the cyclic to the right rear to throw the Loach out of trim. That brought the nose left and immediately forced slipstream air into the right side of the aircraft. Then I leaned out my door and let the rushing air blow the gas out of my eyes.
That got rid of the gas all right, but it also took my eyes off the enemy bunker for just a fleeting second. That's all it took for Charlie to pop up out of his hole and let go with an AK-47.
I heard the rounds leave the muzzle, then heard the bullets ripping into the helicopter's fuselage. Parker's M-60 hammered back a reply.
At the same time, there was blinding pain in my head and for an instant my vision exploded into orange. I felt a slamming impact to my body, and then a strange numbness below my waist.
“God!” I gasped. I looked down at my body and couldn't see my right leg. My first, horrible impression was that my leg had been shot off at the knee. But I didn't see any blood.
Shock, pain, and confusion tore at me. I was trying desperately to control the helicopter and keep away from the ground fire that was still coming up at us from the
enemy bunker.
I stole another look down in an effort to get my throbbing brain to acknowledge the fact that one of my legs had just been blown away. Is this the way this war is gonna end for me? I thought.
Suddenly it dawned on me that most of the pain that was surging through me seemed to be coming from the heel of my right foot. I cradled the collective under my left knee, grabbed the cyclic with my left hand, and used the other hand to investigate my leg. I patted my right thigh and knee, then rubbed my hand over my lower leg. I still had it! It had been there all the time, bent back under me and hanging outside the aircraft on the right door frame. At altitude, I often flew with my leg hanging there.
Lifting and tugging with one hand, I managed to drag the leg back into the cockpit. I couldn't see anything wrong, except there was no heel on my boot. Then, blood began running out of the pant leg of my flight suit and, as the wind caught it, the blood splattered on me and all over the inside of the cockpit.
Realizing I had been shot someplace, I pushed the intercom to Parker and yelled, “Jimbo, I'm hit. My leg's screwed up!”
“Can you fly, Lieutenant?”
“I think so. I'm going to head for Kien and try to put ‘er down, but I just don't know how much control I've got over my leg.”
It was then that my nerve endings all realized at the same time that something had violated my body, and that they weren't going to stand for it. The pain became almost unbearable.
A voice over the VHF radio distracted me momentarily from my agony. It was Mike Woods. “Hey, One Six, you're wobbling a little. You OK down there?”
“We're OK, Three Five,” I gasped, “but we've taken hits … I'm hit. I think I can make it to Kien. I think I can make it that far.”
As I finished talking to the Cobra, I heard some rustling noises in the back cabin. Looking over my left shoulder I saw that Parker had unstrapped from his seat, unplugged his helmet, and was beginning to crawl out the left rear door of the aircraft. We were about fifty feet off the trees and doing seventy knots, and there was Parker out of the aircraft, climbing up front to get in the cockpit with me.
Fighting the rushing slipstream and holding on tightly to the ship's door frames, Jim planted a foot on top of the minigun, then swung himself into the left front seat beside me. I wasn't hurting so badly that I didn't realize what a gutsy thing he had just done.
Parker quickly buckled himself to the seat and plugged in his helmet. “Can I help you on the controls?”
“I can handle them OK,” I said, “but my leg is hurting pretty bad and I may need some help on the pedals.”
Jim put his hands gently down on the collective and cyclic, then positioned his feet on the pedals. He was essentially flying the airplane along with me.
Though crew chiefs were not pilots, they were familiar with the basics. They could fly the ship on a straight and level course, and could even land it in some emergency situations.
As Parker gradually took over the controls and flew on toward Kien, I used my free hands to pat over my body and try to find out exactly what had happened. With my feet now off the pedals, I felt around on my right leg and discovered that a bullet had gone completely through my calf. But that wasn't the only place I was hurt. Blood was also beginning to puddle up in the pilot's seat, and my backside was burning like fire.
Together, Parker and I pieced together what had happened. The enemy AK round had come up through the floor near the pedals. The bullet struck and carried away the heel of my right boot, went through the calf of my leg, and literally blew my leg to the side and out the cabin door. The round then apparently hit the fire extinguisher stowed to the right of my seat, and ricocheted up into my seat and through my thigh. Then it evidently kept going right on out of the aircraft.
We were so busy looking around the cockpit that we nearly overflew Kien. I got back on the controls to help Parker land the ship, and we set her down right at the front gate of the fire base.
I was so groggy by the time we touched down that I bypassed most of the engine shutdown procedures. I went right through the idle stop to full off on the throttle, switched off the battery, then tried to get out of the ship. But I couldn't. All I could do was sit there in the seat that was, by that time, full of blood.
I didn't remember him doing it, but Three Five had radioed ahead for a medevac Huey to pick me up at the fire base. It landed just shortly after Parker and I did and made immediate preparations to load me up and take me to the Second Surgical Hospital at Lai Khe.
Before that, however, I was helped over to the battalion surgeon's tent, where they checked me over and put some bandages on my leg and backside. I just barely remember the corpsman from the medevac ship getting me aboard Dustoff before the morphine took over and the lights went out.
I phased in and out of consciousness during a brief stop at Second Surge in Lai Khe. I was awake enough to recognize the hospital building as the same place where I had watched Jim Ameigh die on the operating table. It was an ugly thought. I closed my eyes and turned my head away. Then I was back in Dustoff and headed to the field hospital in Long Binh, where I had been just a couple of weeks before to visit Bill Jones.
They kept me at Long Binh for three days. My wounds turned out to be minor—much messier than devastating. I guess I wasn't exactly a model patient. By the third day in the hospital, I was fit to be tied. We were shorthanded in the platoon before I left. Now I knew that the scouts were having to double up on missions. With Willis running the outfit, the only thing I could think was, God help us all!
I used the landline telephone to call back to Phu Loi and ask if the troop supply ship could come down to Long Binh to get me. I was back in the platoon that same day, sporting a row of stitches in my thigh, as well as a cane to help me gimp around.
A few days later, the troop officers were invited across the runway to a party that battalion was throwing. There was a change of battalion commanders and the party had been scheduled to mark the event. The only problem was the dress—the invitation called for attendees to be in khaki uniform, and wearing all ribbons and regalia.
I hadn't worn a set of khakis for at least ten months. Neither had most of the other guys. But, in the military, an invitation was really a polite demand that you be present, and in the uniform prescribed!
Most of us had forgotten even the basics, such as which breast pocket your name tag went over, and on which side of the collar went the rank versus the branch insignia. Or, even more perplexing, what ribbons we were entitled to wear, and in what order they were put on the uniform.
So, it was off to see troop 1st Sgt. Martin L. Laurent. The first question generally was, “Check my file, will you, Top, and see what ribbons I'm entitled to wear.” Then, “… and what order do they go in on the rack?”
Thank God First Sergeant Laurent was a tolerant man. Not only did he have to shepherd all the new soldiers and young NCOs, but also a troop full of young warrants and officers. In our final inspection before leaving that night for the party, I remember the first sergeant saying to one of our number, “Young warrant officer, hold on there just a minute. I can readily understand that you are duly proud of that Army Commendation Ribbon with ‘V that you're wearing, but damnit all, son, it goes behind your Silver Star. The Silver Star ribbon goes in front! Now, will you please fix that before you go parading into the party for the battalion commander?”
Decked out in our starched and pressed khakis, spit-shined low quarters, and overseas caps, we all took off across the runway to the 1st Aviation club.
We had to hand it to them, those battalion guys really knew how to throw a party. They had a floor show with Filipino performers and an open bar with plenty of booze. The place was fairly well rockin' right along.
We had so much fun that we stayed late. At about 10:30 or 11 P.M. we noticed that one of the majors from the battalion staff was taking a fancy to one of the female performers. That was all Rod Willis needed. He sure as hell wasn't going to let a major get t
he best of him, not when it came to a member of the fairer sex. So every time the major left to get another drink or go to the restroom, Willis tried to snake this young lady. Both men were more than just a little inebriated, and we all knew that sooner or later there was going to be trouble.
The next time the major went to the John, he came back to find Willis sitting at the lady's table with his arm snugly around her shoulder. The good major stomped back over to the table, struck a very majorly demeanor, and yelled, “What the hell do you think you're doing? Vm talking to this lady. She didn't invite you to this table, and you need to get the hell away from here!”
Rod remembered, thank God, that the man was a major. So, showing unexpected and uncommon respect for the gold oak leaf on the major's collar, Rod very politely excused himself from the young lady's presence and walked over to the bar where I was standing.
Then the lady, evidently having had enough of the bickering, got up and left. Instead of that breaking the chain of events, her leaving served only to further infuriate the major. His face turned beet red. He clamped his hands on his hips, stomped over to Willis, and stuck a forefinger into Rod's face. “All right, Lieutenant,” he fumed, “I want your goddamned name and unit!”
Rod got this shit-eatin' grin on his face. He continued drinking his beer but didn't say a word in reply.
“You're the sorriest excuse for an officer of the United States Army that I ever saw,” the major raved on. “Your conduct was unbecoming an officer, and an insult to every man who wears an officer's uniform. That young lady was my girl and you shouldn't have been messin' around with her. Do you hear that, Lieutenant?”
I was proud of Rod. Though he kept grinning, he didn't say a word back to the major.
With a few more stabs of his finger into Rod's now-blissful face, the major ended his tirade with the threat, “… and don't you forget it!” Then he stormed off, still hurling expletives over his shoulder.
With the major's final departure, Rod let go with one of the most heinous giggles I've ever heard. Nothing sounded very funny to me. “For Christ sakes!” I told him. “For a guy who just got his ass chewed out from one end to the other by a ranking battalion staff officer, I don't understand what in the hell you're laughing about.”